


Even Good Dogs Bite

by autoschediastic, Ponderosa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Sexual Violence, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnes drops to both knees like dead weight. Most of the team hates the way Barnes's eyes track them when they've got his sole attention, but Rumlow feels it like the sweetest sparking touch as he comes close to retrieve the mask from the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Good Dogs Bite

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for all the very bestworst hotwrong in this goes to Pond! Also all my trashy hearteyes. 
> 
> Anon, my hopes this hits some buttons.

As the heavy door clangs shut behind him, Rumlow says, “Strip.”

Without hesitation Barnes sheds his gear. His weapons confiscated on the bridge, he starts with empty holsters. Rumlow circles the blank room, taking stock. A split lip and a couple bruises don't account for the stilted way he's moving. “Status.”

It takes half a beat longer than it should for Barnes's gaze to meet his. “Functional.” Barnes strips off his undershirt without a hitch, so it's not his ribs.

“You sure about that?” is the sort of question Barnes never answers. Rumlow still gets a kick out of asking.

Like the fiasco on the bridge marks the end of Barnes's record for not leaving a mess behind, the last of his clothes hit the floor in a heap. Naked, with stringy hair in his eyes as he tracks Rumlow and blood dried on his lip from where Cap got in a good one, he waits. From a practical standpoint, Rumlow's got a fair amount of appreciation for the tech that allows Barnes to crawl out of cryo as whipcord lean as the day he went in, but the heft of that appreciation is reserved for Barnes himself. There's a lot to be said for a weapon capable of continuously reforging itself.

Rumlow's blatant scrutiny doesn't faze Barnes. The one time Rumlow tried to wait the soldier out, the clock stopped just shy thirty-five minutes. There are questions to ask tonight that are more interesting than whether or not Barnes will just stand there until given an order or he collapses.

Rumlow folds his arms across his chest. “Something on your mind, kid?”

Barnes's lips part a fraction on an indrawn breath. A shattered femur's gotten less reaction out of him.

“Hang on, lemme guess.” Rumlow props a shoulder against the cold steel wall, crosses one foot over the other. Out of the seven ops he's worked with Barnes, the aftermath's never gone quite like this before. A crack in the soldier's armour is a new thrill. “You got a question.”

“Bucky,” Barnes says, like that's it.

“Bucky,” Rumlow repeats, like prying at an armed bomb, and Barnes nods. “Kind of a shit name, don’t you think? A little old school, like Skippy or Mickey or Dusty. Last one fits you better, don’t you think? Lot of cobwebs in that melon of yours.”

A tiny furrow forms on Barnes's brow. “The man on the bridge--”

“Yeah, I heard you got hung on him.” Rumlow scratches at his jaw. The red lights on the cameras in the corners keep blinking. A whole lot of people are interested to know how deep this fissure goes. “How 'bout you tell me why.”

“I knew him.”

“Yeah?”

Barnes nods once, sharp and certain.

“Okay, you know him,” says Rumlow. “Who is he?”

“Captain Steve Rogers,” Barnes recites, along with a whole slew of data Rumlow couldn't care less about but somebody figured the soldier ought to know. He concludes with, “My mission.”

Like they're pals sharing a cold one, Rumlow crooks up one side of his mouth and clucks his tongue. “Sure mucked that one up, huh.”

There's a pause while Barnes parses that. He nods again, as sharp and certain as before.

“So how come?” Rumlow prods. “Seems like a pretty easy gig. They point, you shoot. You forget which end of the gun the bullets come out?”

“I knew him,” Barnes says slowly, chugging his way around the soupy mess in his head, “and he knew me.”

Rumlow shoves off the wall with a low whistle. “Now there's something.”

Barnes's eyes narrow. Rumlow can't help a broad grin. Even off his game, the soldier's still sharp. When they play back the recording, maybe Rumlow'll be able to spot his own tell. “Okay, okay,” he says, holding up both hands palm-out. “Fair enough, you caught me. Not bad, kid.”

Barnes's weight shifts subtly and Rumlow's pulse kicks. There's less than four feet between them, more than seven to the door, and Rumlow's got more confidence in Barnes's ability to kill than in the trigger word embedded in his skull. But Barnes doesn't erupt into motion. His gaze stays steady on Rumlow even while his chest begins to rise and fall with quicker, shallower breaths.

The white coats ran pictures, recordings, every scrap of data they have on Cap by Barnes before tossing him in here and got nothing. But they haven't seen their lab rat run covert ops like Rumlow has. They haven't seen what Barnes can do when he sheds the soldier's skin.

Rumlow says, “Yeah, I know him too,” on a sigh like he shouldn’t be admitting it. “Hell of a guy. Best there is, y'know?” At Barnes's dead silence, he smiles. “I bet you wanna know.”

A brief, barely-there noise grates in Barnes's chest. Rumlow flicks a glance at the cameras; chances are good the audio missed it, but there's no missing the way Barnes's muscles have gone tight, body poised and ready. His own breath tight in his chest, Rumlow orders, “Down.”

Barnes drops to both knees like dead weight. Most of the team hates the way Barnes's eyes track them when they've got his sole attention, but Rumlow feels it like the sweetest sparking touch as he comes close to retrieve the mask from the floor. It's lighter than it looks, made of a sturdy, flexible composite and titanium alloy buckles. He counts the seconds as Barnes's silence grows until the entire room is filled with the humming weight of it.

Skin buzzing, Rumlow says, “You could just ask,” and loses breath on a groan as Barnes's whole body shudders.

“I get it,” he goes on, fisting a hand in Barnes's dirty hair. Oh, they hose him down each time but unless it’s a special assignment they never really do clean him up. Rumlow tightens his grip. “Where're you gonna start? You know who he is, but you don't know who he _is_.”

Barnes's tongue flicks over his lips. Sweat shines lightly on the bridge of his nose, along the hollows of his collarbones and the top of his chest. “I don't know who he is,” he repeats, his face twisting immediately with confusion.

“That's right,” Rumlow says, and gives him a rough shake when he tries to speak again. His mouth falls slack, wet. “To Hydra and SHIELD, he's a fucking pain in the ass.” Rumlow laughs. “Hell, most of the time he's a pain in _my_ ass. But the thing you're looking for, kid, that's a whole different ball game.”

That low, guttural noise echoes deep in Barnes's chest again. Sinking into a crouch, Rumlow holds up the mask. Barnes obediently lifts his chin, eyes wide and wild even as he fits his face into it. “You do want to know, don't you?” Rumlow asks, Barnes panting shallowly as the buckles pull tight. “Who is Captain America to some kid named Bucky.”

The mask muffles Barnes's wordless snarl. Most people outside this room would turn tail and run at that noise. The Winter Soldier's not supposed to get angry. He's not supposed to feel anything, and they're all so afraid of what might happen if-- _when_ \--he does. But rage looks good on Barnes, same as the frustration, the confusion, the tiniest hint of sadness at the corners of his eyes that says how deeply it hurts that he just doesn't know. He doesn't know anything, least of all what he's feeling or why he's feeling it.

“Go ahead,” Rumlow says, combing both hands through Barnes's tangled hair. Grip tight, he yanks Barnes close. That caged-animal stares gets him as hard as rubbing his dick against Barnes's muzzled face. “Ask.”

Barnes tries. Muscles and tendons pop out in sharp relief as his whole body tenses, not struggling against the rough scrape of Rumlow's fatigues on the delicate area around his eyes, but against himself. Beneath the edges of the mask, his throat works furiously. His hands curl to tight, useless fists.

“Ask,” Rumlow goads, and the soldier quakes.

Rumlow drives his knee hard into the underside of Barnes's chin. Hair rips free in Rumlow's fingers as Barnes goes down flat, legs caught beneath him. Riding the adrenaline shot, Rumlow barks, “Stay.” Scrabbling metal fingers go silent. Barnes's body is in a perfect bow, shoulders to the floor, feet curled under him, thighs pulled taut and straining. The short movement of Barnes's chest is the only thing separating him from a photograph.

Rumlow lets out another low whistle. “Would you fuckin' look at that.” He nudges the toe of his boot against Barnes's balls and the half-hard slump of his cock. “Liked my dick in your face that much, did you? Or did I knock something about ol' Stevie loose?” When Barnes doesn't reply, Rumlow drops to a knee beside him, puts a hand to his cock and strokes. “Right, right. I forgot. You don't know.”

Barnes stays silent. Rumlow gives his dick a shake and laughs. “See, now you do. A thick one means you like it.” Rumlow uncurls his hand just long enough to spit, then a few more firm tugs gets Barnes's flushed cock standing up nice and straight. “He's got a bigger dick than you. You remember that fucking baseball bat he's got swinging between those legs?” He pauses. “Guess not.”

Rocking back on his heels, Rumlow starts in on his boots. “The guy's got his habits too, right? Shirt first, then his boots. Walks around like that all the time, barefoot with his tits out,” he says as he stands to shuck his pants. Barnes is still rock-hard. “Stretch your legs out.”

Barnes unfolds easily and not at all like the rough grate of his voice. “Rogers.”

“Yeah, Rogers.” Dropping back to the floor, Rumlow swings a leg over Barnes to straddle his chest. “But he's not the one who likes it in the ass. I hear you don't even have to fake it out in the field,” he says, jacking it right in front of Barnes's face. The urge to just wring one out and make a mess all over that muzzle is damn tempting. They could stick Barnes back in the freezer smelling of jizz and it wouldn’t be the first time. “How about it, Sarge, you up for a good time?”

Rumlow's dick jumps in his grip as Barnes's knees draw up. “Yeah, that’s how it is, you spread your legs for him all right.” Bracing a hand on Barnes's metal shoulder, Rumlow rubs his cockhead over the mask, staining it wet. The edges dig sharply into Barnes's jaw; his mouth is wide open beneath it. “Maybe if he had time to stick it in you on that bridge, you'd know him like I do. How he’s funnier than you’d expect, sharp as a tack, and oh...the way he fucks.”

Barnes's feet skid wider. His hips lift high enough his cock drags hot across the small of Rumlow's back. They can burn whatever they want out of his brain; Rumlow knows muscle memory, and Barnes has it. “Too bad for you,” Rumlow says, pausing to spit on his hand and work his hole a little loose while Barnes watches, silent except for the confusion still loud and clear on his face, “I don’t give a shit what you want, and I like a good fuck too. Did you call him Cap when he drilled you? Makes the big guy blush.”

He twists to spit again, this time onto Barnes's cock. When he grabs it to hold it steady, head snug against his hole, Barnes's chest hitches. He sinks down slowly, answering the sharp intake of Barnes's breath with a wink while he pauses to fuck himself open on it. “You like that?” he asks, rising up on his knees so Barnes nearly slips free, and of course Barnes doesn't reply, his eyes squeezing shut. A casual backhand across the face gets them snapping open again, gaze fixing instantly on Rumlow as he drops the rest of the way.

Rumlow lets out a quiet grunt, a hand braced on Barnes's chest as he grinds down hard to make sure it’s wedged in nice and deep. Barnes's hands clench into fists, his bare feet scrape the concrete floor, his hips lift and his body twists but he doesn't fuck. Rumlow rides his useless writhing until he rears up, fingers clawing for purchase; Rumlow smacks a hand over the mask muzzling him and slams him back to the floor. “They should've sent you in to fuck him,” he says, squeezing the mask tight to grind it against Barnes's face. “Given you both one last hurrah before you gutted him. If you could figure out what to do with your dick.”

Rumlow's grip slurs Barnes's grunted words. His hands snap tight to Rumlow's sides and his knees lift, feet braced. He doesn't wait for the order before he fucks. Rumlow laughs as his whole body is jolted forward, then laughs again, rougher and deeper in his chest, as Barnes braces his weight and slams into him again, all focus and no finesse. “You think that's how he did it?”

Barnes doesn't try to speak again. His ass lifts off the floor as he ruts, as quick here as he is in the field to pick up on Rumlow's cues. Rumlow says, “Good boy,” and grins again, adrenaline surging in his veins as Barnes placidly accepts both the praise and a patronising pat on the cheek. “Didn’t have a problem with me, but I’m betting he’d cut off his own dick before he fucked you as hard as you wanted. Cock-hungry whore. How much did you beg for it anyway?”

Barnes's pace doesn't slow--he knows what's expected of him now, and he'll perform--but his confusion shows. “That's right, you heard me. Don't tell me Steve fucking Rogers isn't a memorable roll. You're gonna ruin his reputation.”

“We fucked,” Barnes says, a statement that's still somehow a question. The next noise he makes is tortured. _When? Where? Why?_ Things he wants to ask but can't, because he doesn't need to know. He _wants_ to. And the Winter Soldier isn't permitted to want.

“You fucked up,” Rumlow says, and leans back, arms lifting in a long, slow stretch as Barnes works him. A shiver turns to a full-on shudder as Rumlow deliberately tightens up, a split-second pause before Barnes's jaw clenches and he shoves past slight resistance. “What's the big guy gonna do, leave a punk kid like you behind enemy lines? Not his style.”

Barnes falters. “Punk kid. Like me.”

Rumlow just nods, his chest and belly tight. He drops a hand to his dick, trading the drag of Barnes's cock against his insides for the thick, full pressure of it shoved deep. His skin's buzzing first with heat, then anticipation, then the urge to let Barnes off the leash. 

A hand to the throat is an order for Barnes to stay down. Rumlow grits his teeth and fucks himself on Barnes's cock, fast and steady and firming his grip to hear Barnes choke. Barnes is close, quaking worse than after a round in the chair. The buckles on the mask pull tight, his jaw clenched. His hold on Rumlow is an ounce of pressure shy of bruising.

“Almost hurts, doesn't it,” Rumlow says, sucking down the air Barnes's lungs are burning for. “I bet you don't even know how bad you wish I had my dick in you instead.”

A rasping whine caught in his throat, Barnes comes. His whole body convulses as Rumlow grinds down on him. His metal hand tears away and slams into the reinforced concrete, shattering the surface and sending out thin, spidery cracks in a foot's radius or more. Rumlow grabs a sloppy handful of his hair and yanks his head up, jerking off fast while Barnes is jammed up inside him mostly hard and over-sensitive. His pulse kicks in his chest and then in his balls; the first shot hits Barnes right across the cheek, stark white against matte black and splattered in a sharp diagonal like cast-off from a blade. Barnes, his chest heaving and body still quaking, stares up at him as he paints the muzzle shiny wet. Behind it, Barnes's jaw works, throat shifting as he swallows nothing but air.

Rumlow drags his fingers free of Barnes's tangled hair. Barnes stays propped up on his elbows, heavy breaths rasping behind the mask and come dripping down to mix with the sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat.

“Too bad your old boyfriend doesn’t get to enjoy the sloppy seconds. At least you did one good thing today, kid. Fuck, maybe even better than last time,” Rumlow tells him, and grins. “Not that you'd know.”


End file.
